her eyes golden filled
look at it its burning bright
sun on her windows
MacArthur Park
3wordpoetpost
Ixchel’s children
bury me standing feet
rooted nowhere sleep eludes
me walking forever before
Cain’s sin gave rise
to grief that flows
my blood in history
am i not a
star child too nomad
in the mystery of
God like child in
birth to surf the
skies where serpents lay
in slumber this universe
was made for multiple
stars to shine at
smiles so bright that
return the favor blindly
for Vicente
I
crows gather to drink
water from the dirty street
i sit in waiting
II
footsteps upon the
main entrance of the lonely
church tread on holy
III
visions in my head
i see the cock will crow once
more and they will come
IV
to find us where we
are gathered in the sacred
house and take us with
V
their dirty decrees
it happened in the east first
it’s in the west now
Rexall
on the table is a word
followed by dozens of
other words lying next
to each other in lines of
instruction, warning and
grief
although the moon has
dropped her pretty face
i pick her up by her wise
chin and beg her to shine
again
the stars in my moon’s
hair dance like beams
in a driven stony river
where the bones of time
soak unto the soil of my
bloods